


Broken Bones

by Kyaxns



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Character Death, Out of Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 06:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16034600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyaxns/pseuds/Kyaxns
Summary: During the Battle for Whiterun, Kilima is injured while fighting in the name of the Stormcloaks. A letter about her condition is scribbled and quickly sent to Ulfric Stormcloak, who rushes to the city with the possibility of losing her on the way.





	Broken Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who got into Skyrim again and decided to play the Civil War questline as a Stormcloak? The same person who got a crush on Ulfric and had to make an OC as his lover just to put them in an angsty romance.  
> Bit of an out-of-character and non-cannon theme, but I got nothing to lose, and enjoyed writing it. So hopefully you enjoy it. Either way, thanks so much for reading. :)

_And so the Bone-Breaker finally got a taste of her own medicine._ That’s what Ulfric would’ve said, if the situation was light enough to. But it wasn’t. Nothing would ever be joke material if it involved Kilima, his star Stormcloak, wounded and spitting blood whenever she took too big of a breath. That’s what the letter from Galmar said, at least. The blonde’s heart practically leapt into his throat at the memory of that scribbled ink on the paper, describing the battle of Whiterun and how its high victory came with steep losses. The worst would be losing that sassy Nord he’s come to favor for company, according to the Jarl of Windhelm. He wasn’t in his snowy city, though. He was no king in the hold of Whiterun. He was simply a villian riding fast toward the yellow capped city in the dead of night. The frigid breeze painted his cheeks pink and combed through his ash blonde hair until it waved like the wheat fields on a windy day. Ice fell from the clouds, casting Skyrim into a darker night, and stung his hazel eyes. Fires were still burning through the grass by the walls of Whiterun. Broken bits of wood from obliterated barricades were scattered among the stone path that now clacked underneath his horse’s hooves. Many men dressed in their armor lay wounded off the road or in the bushes, dying or already dead. Ulfric glanced around and saw none that belonged to him. The gates of the grand Hills of the Dragons were wide open. People were crowding in their once safe streets. Blood was staining the cobblestone and up the stairs to the second district where more destroyed wood was pushed aside. Ulfric could hear gasps from frightened women and his name slipping from men’s mouths as he rode past. 

He knew what they were thinking. He knew even seconds of seeing his face had sparked fear or hatred within their naive hearts. For they knew what kind of man he was. He was Ulfric Stormcloak, killer of the High King, and traitor of the Empire. He was a man who had learned the ancient ways of the Dovah language and used it to rip their province, as well as Torygg, apart with its words. He was the leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion. And because of that, he was assumed as a man incapable of anything but emotion cold enough to freeze someone into ice. He was seen as a man who was perhaps the worst enemy to ever walk along this sacred Nord land. He was seen as anything but human. Sure, he had made quite an infamous reputation to some. And yes, he widowed not only Jarl Elisif, but many other men and women who were unlucky enough to have lovers willing to join the Civil War. He wasn’t the nicest mortal to ever live. He wasn’t even seen as a mortal, really. But that didn’t mean he was something evil from another world. It didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings, although there were deep down in there. It didn’t mean he didn’t have cares or thoughts or opinions. It didn’t mean that he was any less of a person than those who demonized him and slandered his name. Ulfric did feel. He felt pain when his flesh was torn by a blade or the gooseflesh he got when he was standing in the eye of the falling snow that always seemed to hover over his city. Ulfric felt things in his heart, even if it was claimed to be made of the very stone Windhelm had been created from. That was why he was came from his comfortable palace straight to Dragonsreach, wasn’t it? Because he felt something when he heard the report of Kilima and all of her other wounded brothers and sisters in combat? Ulfric thought, too. Not just about overthrowing the Empire, but about other things normal people did. He thought about the colors he liked and jewels he preferred over others if he had to pick. He thought about his younger years and the people then, and he thought about the people now. How many there were all over Tamriel and how their day was totally different from his. He thought about Bone Breaker, as all the Stormcloaks including himself had begun to call her. Ulfric thought about how hot it must be under her helmet with all of that thick golden hair, bright and wavy in a natural bob with strands that were always over her left eye. He thought about how she loved swinging her swords in his name or how she always seemed so eager to help her leader in anyway. How she kept her head high even when everything around her was knocking it down. Ulfric thought about what he would do if he would come all of this way to find her dead, because again, he felt. He wasn’t very outgoing on showing it, but he did. Until now. Maybe he should have presented his emotions more openly, because these dawning hours might be the last he would have with her, if she was even still on this realm. His heart was pounding in his broad chest now. 

His horse leaped to the top of the stone stairs with a loud bellow and slid on its hooves upon landing. Its body swayed too quickly and there wasn’t enough time to slow its skid across the stone. Ulfric flew off forward and fell partially into the base of the Gildergreen tree blossoming with pink buds on its outstretched branches. His head felt heavy from the rapid motion his body was getting too old to endure. The clattering of hooves faded into the distance before he even managed to look back up and see the destruction among the torch lights. Jagged wood poked into the sky from their heaps of ash and broken structures. Black smoke curled slowly around them as the heavy smell of fire filled his nostrils. More demolished barricades laid close to the entrances of the Wind District. Bodies draped in Imperial Armor were bathing in pools of blood. It didn’t take him long to feel a hot pain at his forehead and then see the river of red flowing from his head onto the grass under him, staining the dying blades with dark droplets that shined in the little moonlight there was that night. His fingers reached up and inspected the gash briefly. His whole head throbbed madly at the acknowledgement of it. It fell on his lips and greeted his tongue with a sour taste. Ulfric finally managed to get to his feet only to find an enemy before him, aiming an arrow at his face with a wooden bow. It was a young boy dressed as an Imperial warrior. That was when Ulfric realized that his horse did not make a wrong jump, but was rather struck by an arrow while making one. Ulfric’s eyes wandered frantically until they landed upon the nearest body to his left, equipped with a shield. He didn’t have the time to play cat and mouse with this boy. He knew he didn’t have it, because he was unsure of how much exactly. Kilima could be taking her last breaths, surrounded by men she admired, but none that brought warmth like a good campfire. None that felt for her like he did. “Ulfric Stormcloak.” The boy began tauntingly. 

Ulfric’s steel eyes locked onto the challenger. His chest burned with a great power that tightened his throat as his lips parted. “ _Fus!_ ” He roared and watched the blue ripples tore through the air into the Imperial, who went flying back and almost down the stairs he came from. The Stormcloak leaped to the left and rolled. His hand found the long shield he had been set on moments ago just as the enemy reached for his bow again while still trying to stand. An arrow shot across the district and impaled the shield Ulfric lifted up with a second to spare. His right hand found his favorite steel battle axe at his waist and didn’t hesitate to disband it. The Imperial called out in frustration and another arrow came whistling by Ulfric’s ear. He was stomping toward the young boy with fury. The enemy didn’t load his next shot fast enough to dodge the shield his comrades used. It whapped him across the face and sent his head spiraling to the side. Teeth exploded from the Imperial’s mouth and landed with tiny clacks as they bounced down the steps. The warrior fell onto his hands and knees as he spat blood onto himself. Ulfric swung down. The blade of his axe chopped into the back of the boy’s neck with a clean cut. His soul left instantly, but his body clung to the razor sharp metal so much Ulfric had to pry him off with his boot. The Jarl didn’t hesitate to whip back around when he heard the creaking of a door. His heart was engulfed with flames of rage and desperation. For once, he didn’t want to be on the battlefield. He wanted to be at Kilima’s side. He wanted to see how bad it really was for himself, because he wasn’t as much of a quitter as his men. Granted, he understood the wounds of war took a toll on one’s body and mind, but that wasn’t what he meant. He meant that they were swift to quit on their own. It was just natural instinct. A bird did not try to nurse a cracked egg back to health. His mind didn’t wander too far down its path. There was something between him and Kilima, and he was going to fucking kill it if he had to. He raised his axe to make a swift toss at the shadow slinking from what he recognized as the Temple of Kynareth. In the light, it was revealed to be a blue eyed Nord with long blonde hair that wore the very armor that represented Ulfric’s cause. He was barely able to stop his fingers from letting go of the handle of his weapon. “Ralof!” He exclaimed at the soldier. 

The two ran around the tree and met at the base of the last flight of stairs. Ralof’s eyes were wide with surprise and awe as he stared at the bloody face of his leader. “Ulfric, sir! You’re here!” The fellow Helgen survivor observed. The Jarl nodded weakly. His heartbeat was roaring so loud in his ears he had hardly heard him. He did, however, see the dirt raked across Ralof’s face and the dried blood on his cuirass. Ulfric also saw the red bottles bunched up in his soldier’s hefty arms. 

“How is everyone else?” The rebel inquired seriously. His eyes searched deep in Ralof’s face only to find sincerity yet concern. 

Ralof informed, “Okay.” 

Never once had Ulfric’s fingers trembled like they were now. Not when he was holding an arrow between him and a bloodthirsty Forsworn during battle, not when he fought for his life against anyone stupid enough to fight him, not in his bad days of the Great War, and not even in his own war. But they were shaking as if he stood at the peak of the Throat of the World during a blizzard. They were shaking at the thought of that special Stormcloak he’s grown so fond of. “How is Kilima?” He asked with a voice strung tight with an emotion many thought he lacked.

Ralof didn’t answer this time. He simply stared more worriedly and clutched his fingers over the healing potions he managed to scavenge. 

Dragonsreach had been left in a mess of strew furniture and shattered glass from plates. Spots of blood coated the floor and stairs. Bodies were dragged into one pile at their respectable corner until they could be given a proper resting. The fire would have felt comforting if it weren’t for the fact that this room could possibly house one of the worst memories of Ulfric’s life. A Dunmer woman dressed in armor was sprawled out across the bottom of the with a hand pressed to her side. The court wizard was still laying in the doorway of his study, isolated from the dead Stormcloaks he had battled with the night before. Ulfric felt his heart sink at it. As much trouble it would be, the wizard could have used his healing magic to aid Kilima even if it was forced from him. Jarl Balgruuf was hovering on top of the staircase with two other figures, one on her back and looking up at the ceiling. Ulfric recognized the man sitting at her head was his deputy, Galmar Stone-Fist. The rebel ran through the hall and bounded up the stairs until he was on his knees at the fallen warrior’s side. Galmar stared at his commander in shock at his sudden appearance, but he knew better than to let his gruff voice slip at such a saddening moment. Ralof was just behind and soon joined them. Ulfric’s muscles collapsed in relief at the sight of life in those sea blue eyes staring up at him. “Kilima.” He murmured, unsure of what message he was trying to convey with the sound it made. 

The woman’s hair was unfurled across the floor like butterscotch waves. Blood had trailed from the corner of her mouth and down her face. She had been laying her for a long time. Maybe since the very moment she hit the floor from whatever happened. That made him realize that he remained unaware of what that exactly was. Kilima faintly smiled at the sight of his face towering over her. Her armor had been left on, which terrified the Jarl, because that meant that the others were far too fearful to remove it from her maimed body. They had no idea what state her torso lay in, because moving her could kill her for all they knew. Ulfric’s chest caved in. His quivering fingers found themselves in her soft hair. His eyes found hers. “The Bear of Markarth,” She commented with a heavy rasp, “I...didn’t think I’d get to...see you again.” 

Every breath she took was pained labor. Ulfric could feel his whole world falling around him. “Don’t talk like that.” Ulfric scolded with a weak voice, as if it were a ship that had just wrecked. He could feel the eyes trained on him and the ears picking up on the first ever pain Ulfric had willingly shown. Did it matter at this point? He saw his men weep from agony after battles all of the time and most didn’t bat an eye. Then again, those were soldiers. He was the leader. He was the ruthless leader that had tried to keep walls up higher than his own city’s. It wasn’t expected of him to feel this much. He turned toward Ralof and snatched a potion from him. The cork came out with a pop. “Drink this. That’s an order.” Ulfric demanded as he slowly brought the neck of the bottle to her face. 

“The damage is done, Ulfric,” She forced out with a whimper of discomfort, “those will be...useless on me.” 

Ulfric wasn’t honestly sure who was dying more. He felt as if he had been stabbed in the back. That someone deserved to pay for what happened to her even if it was him who specifically ordered her on the front lines. “I’m so sorry.” Balgruuf’s quiet voice came sympathetically. He was crouched down on the other side of her. His armor had been cut into with blades and pushed in with warhammers. His face had been written with the shame of surrendering since early morning. It didn’t matter anymore, because Ulfric was beginning to question how much it was actually worth now. 

He didn’t know what did it, but he swung his axe at Balgruuf’s hand the moment he reached toward his soldier. His Ice-Veins. His Bone-Breaker. His beloved. “Don’t touch her.” Ulfric warned with a loud rumble of anger. Balgruuf stared at him coldly. 

“She was a good warrior. She was too good to be a Stormcloak! Now look at what your _cause_ has done, Ulfric!” Balgruuf’s voice raised and the rebel felt rage build up to match it. 

He threw down his axe. It made a threatening thump against the wood floor. “She’s not dead!” He shrieked and a thunder rolled across the throne room. Heavy furniture momentarily bounced off the ground as chairs fell over. Tankards and cups rolled off the table as candlesticks fell over and plates clattered. Ulfric suddenly realized that his Dovah voice had slipped out. Galmar closed his eyes tightly. Ralof looked nervously at his leader and Balgruuf continued to gaze challengingly at the Jarl of Windhelm. The crackling of the firepit was the only noise that echoed through the hall for a while. 

Anger diminished from Balgruuf’s eyes into pity. “She might as well be.” His voice was barely audible over the wind howling outside. He then turned his gaze back to the beautiful woman wheezing on his palace’s floor. “May Sovngarde be sweet to you, Kilima.” He said blandly before standing and hesitantly lumbering toward the throne he was forced from. 

Ulfric wanted to stand up and chop the man into thousands of pieces. He wanted to actually tear the man apart with his voice like the rumors claimed he already did. He wanted to do anything to stop the storm rolling inside of him. But Kilima was the calm to his storm and she was far too in the clouds to really do so. Perhaps forever this time. Ulfric felt the intensity inside him dissipate when he saw the crystal tears streaming down her face. This was the first time he had seen her cry. Maybe the last time to see her cry, too. He didn’t want that. He didn’t care what he’d have to do, he’d rather see her cry a hundred more times than to see her in the Hall of the Dead. Anything to keep her alive. To keep her with him. Ulfric cupped her chin and forced her mouth open enough to dunk the potion inside. Kilima choked and sputtered, but then swiftly swallowed. Agony flashed in her eyes at the action. Her body was far too injured to function correctly. He was far too injured to function, too, because his eyes had become wet with tears. The first ever time he showed this much vulnerability, but he didn’t care. He was feeling. They both were, together, after years of not allowing themselves to because she was as stubborn as stone and tough as iron just like him. Another snap caught his attention. Ralof had opened another potion and looked at Kilima determinedly as he tipped the top into her mouth. She fought more this time by lifting her hand up to push his wrist away. It fell back down once the pain became too hard to bear. Kilima burst into tears the second time she got it down her throat. It was unbearable. She had been laying like that for almost a day, probably praying for a relief of the pain, only to be forced to suffer a bit longer in hopes of her survival. At least, that’s what she was thinking. Ulfric was thinking about how he had so many moments to be with her and passed each one up as if they had all of the time in the world to have more. He regretted every time he dismissed her when she could’ve hung around with him. He regretted not admiring her or making her feel more special. Making her feel like a queen rather than a dirty dog fighting in the mud for her next bone. He regretted not letting himself feel enough to do something about it when they still had the better chance. His hand touched the side of her face in an attempt to soothe the unruly emotions he knew she felt, too. He collapsed and buried his face against hers, near her neck, as he tried to whisper _anything_ to her. Nothing came out but a choked cry. Kilima infirmly tilted her head so she could nuzzle her nose into his ear. Her eyes were closed from the desire to sleep forever. “It’s okay,” She murmured dulcelty to him, “I won for Skyrim. For you.” 

Ulfric’s hand stroked the other side of her face, dropping onto her chest in pain when he heard the last part of what might be her final words to him. Their wet cheeks brushed together and his beard scratched her impeccable skin he wished he could have felt for a bit longer. He gave her temple a forceful kiss before sitting back up. Kilima laid there in a half-sleep. He sniffled and wiped away the tear gliding down his cheekbone with his furred sleeve. “Who did this?” He demanded with a voice thick with despair. Galmar’s dull eyes fell behind Ulfric, who could see Ralof turn his head in the same direction out of the corner of his eye. When he shifted, he saw the Dunmer woman as the only answer. She casted a glance over her shoulder at the Stormcloak men before continuing to stare at the busted doors of the palace where the night sky could be seen. He spotted a warhammer resting behind her. She had used the warhammer to break Kilima’s chest into fragments. To break her ribs and wound her heart so badly that it could barely pump blood through her body. Ulfric sniffled again and got to his feet. Ralof refused to watch and kept his eyes on his friend while Galmar actually seemed to straighten up with pride at his commander. 

Ulfric staggered over to her and gazed at the back of her head for a longer than he had meant. She didn’t look at him, but she knew he was there. She was expecting him to scream or insult her. Not to pick up her warhammer. Ulfric kept the burdening weight in his hands for a while as he continued to watch her. He wasn’t sure if he hated her confidence in getting away with attempting to take something so important from him or impressed by it. The Dunmer's head make a sickening crack under the end of the warhammer. Her body went limp almost immediately and fell to the side. The blonde male then chucked the weapon. It made it a few feet before hitting the ground with a heavy clunk. Ulfric returned to his soldiers. Kilima's eyes were open again as she took high pitched breaths. “I think the potions are taking an effect.” Ralof muttered. The rebellion leader sat on his knees again. Kilima's eyes flickered between her kinsman, wide and sparkling with a hint of relief. 

Ulfric wanted to care for her. He wanted to learn restoration magic for her. He wanted to kiss her and spoil her in their lifetime together. And he could. He could if she survived. _By Talos, I will make sure of that._ His hand drifted over her hair and landed on her cheek. “Can you move?” He asked seriously. 

Kilima panted with a face twisted in uncertainty. She shifted slightly and winced. “I don’t know.” She answered. 

“Try.” Ulfric took her hand and tugged encouragingly. Pained huffs and sighs came from her as she lifted her head first. With a cry, she sat upright. Ulfric reached for the last healing potion they had managed to find. Ralof stopped him with a stern glint in his eyes. Kilima was hyperventilating, but managing to stay up. Her muscles were probably spasming too much to feel anything but blinding pain. So why not give her the potion? 

Ralof was reluctant to disobey or disrespect his leader, but something was obviously more important to do so, and Ulfric had no choice but to listen as to why. “Those potions will wear off after they've healed what they could. Save this for when she needs it again.” Ralof advised with lento words. The older man sighed as he sat there for a few moments before nodding. 

“Galmar, I need you to strip off her armor. Her body might not be able to carry it when it's this hurt. Let's not risk it.” The leader commanded. The deputy shot him an anxious glance before dubiously starting to slip her cuirass up. “Ralof, go in the study and see if you can find any spell tomes on healing.” Ulfric gestured to the lab with his head before casting a glance around the room to see two other Stormcloak men, both with dark hair and beards, witnessing all of it by the dining table. Balgruuf was sitting on the last step to the throne with his chin resting on his clasped hands. Ulfric looked at his soldiers and austerely ordered, “Find a carriage to take us home.” 

The blue clad warriors rushed outside into the burning city without a word. Galmar was helping Kilima slide her arms through and books were being thrown across the lab frantically. Balgruuf snorted as he sat upright almost challengingly. The enemy Jarl could see that it was a false stance. There was no fight left to win. “And what of me?” The Whiterun ruler taunted. 

Ulfric locked eyes with the man over the orange fire springing from the wood it had been set on. “You have until sundown to leave.” He spat coldly. Balgruuf didn’t say anything more nor look anywhere else but his steel boots. He lumbered into his personal chambers before the conditions changed in their agreement. 

Kilima was whimpering as her armor was tugged off of her torso, revealing her white undergarment and slightly muscled stomach. Her face was turning redder than a mountain flower out of shame, or embarrassment, or both. He didn’t hesitate to take off his fur trimmed cloak as she crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, you’re the first woman to let me take off her clothes willingly.” Galmar cracked an obvious self-loathing joke, as he always handled stressful situations with humor. Kilima glared ahead. 

Ulfric forced a smile. “Now is not the time for jokes, Galmar.” He said before throwing his fur over her shoulders to partially curtain the show after dismissing his deputy. This was as private as it was going to get at the moment. “Let me see what we’re dealing with here.” Ulfric spoke more soothingly to her when she seemed to hug herself tighter at his extending hand. Her glossy eyes observed the concerned expression on his face. She saw the sorrow in his eyes and seemingly fell apart at it. Her arms loosened and she looked down with tears welling in her eyes again. Ulfric had heard of her past problems with unwanted men. He had eavesdropped from Ralof of how untrustworthy she was toward anyone now, out of fear of vulnerability and abuse she might have to withstand again. Ulfric didn’t want to be another bad memory or mistake. Even if he couldn’t take the mistrust or fear from her, he could make a new place in her heart that could overpower them. He could try. He _would_ try. The Nord woman dropped her hands on her lap, legs still covered in thin brown pants. Ulfric felt ill to his stomach when he saw the darkly colored contusion covering a large area of her sternum and upper stomach. Vessels underneath her skin could be seen for inches because they had turned purple. Black was at heart of the bruise. Her ribs looked off somehow. Tenebrosity purple reached across her torso in disfigured edges. He couldn’t imagine what the inside would look like. 

Galmar soon returned in the doorway with one of the men their leader had sent away. “There’s a carriage waiting.” He stated. 

“Good. I’m leaving you here with the others to hold down the fort until my next orders.” Ulfric informed while picking up the last red bottle and tucking it away. Ralof came hurrying out with furrowed brows as he brought over a yellow book with an odd symbol on the front cover. He didn’t hesitate to tuck it under his arm before sliding his arms under Kilima whose face had now gone pale. 

The pair gazed into each other’s eyes for a long time. They usually did so when arguing with each other and when there was no words left to be used, they would use their gazes like weapons on each other. It wasn’t like that this time. This wasn’t a fight for winnings, but a search for trust, for some sort of emotion even deeper than the ones they had been so willing to show that night. His face, already beaten by the frigid wind, was beginning to lose its color, too. A few tense moments passed before she threw her arm over his shoulders and around his neck. Ulfric stood up as steadily as he could without hurting her. She went limp in his arms and occasionally made grunts of torture whilst her nails buried themselves into his shoulder through his clothes. Ulfric left as fast as he came. A milky pink was peeking from over the jagged mountains yet he still seemed to slip through the districts like a shadow. People were asleep in their beds or hiding somewhere in their homes where they prayed they would not be found. The streets were clear of any live bodies. A horse drawn carriage awaited outside of the gates. Pelts had been hurriedly gathered and layered on the floor by the two Stormcloaks now patrolling the entrance to Whiterun with their chins held high. As they passed, one soldier called out gently, “Get well, Lady Kilima.” 

The other quickly joined in, “Talos guide you, Bone Breaker! Ulfric Stormcloak!” 

Ulfric was a bit surprised by the addressing of the two. It was as if that throne room had created a whole new world for everyone in it- one where perhaps Kilima and Ulfric were more than soldier and commander. _Lady Kilima._ He enjoyed the sound of that, maybe even a little more than her war nicknames. He thoughtfully glanced down in his arms to see the silent woman staring up at him with half-lidded eyes beaming with unrestrained passion. Her sharp nails had been replaced with delicate fingertips that stroked his shoulder in content. Her wavy hair hung in her exhausted face as she let her head fall against his chest. He was sure the warm fur and cradling arms were much more palliative than the palace floor and healing potions. As much as it was foreign to admit, he liked the thought of being better than any other remedy in all of Skyrim. Her eyes didn’t leave his blood stained face as he heaved them both into the cart and gingerly laid her on the makeshift bed. The carriage began to shift with the uneven road toward Windhelm where she would be properly healed. He leaned over her. “You’re going to make it, Kilima,” He vowed, “do you hear me? You’re going to make it.” 

Kilima stared at him with affection for a while. “I suppose I am.” She answered before settling her head down. She pulled the fur cloak over her more snuggly as he sat at her side and pulled the spell tome onto his lap. One hand rested on the floor between them as he used the other to read the burning pages. He felt a warmth in his chest when fingers intertwined with his. She was examining the changing sky above them rather than his smug face as his eyes travelled across the written words. That day, he decided broken bones were better than a broken heart.


End file.
